Attempted Excuses
by codenamepapabear
Summary: A Hogan/Newkirk snippet, Flimsy justifications abound, and Carter is wise not to inquire too far. (It's a mixture of crack and fluff. Written to try to break writers' block.)


"Hey, Colonel?"

With a pattering of footfalls, Carter made his way into Hogan's office, holding a hastily scribbled memo in one gloved hand. Though he carefully shut the door after him, the squeak of the hinge and the bright beam of a flashlight heralded the sergeant's presence.

The light searing through Hogan's eyelids made it hard for sleep to continue. He pushed himself up on one elbow, then froze, consciousness slowly filtering through his groggy mind. His blanket-cocooned companion's presence was currently making the bunk very cramped. Hopefully Carter wouldn't be observant enough to notice the dual occupancy.

Hogan reached for the note. "What?"

Carter offered the paper cautiously and dropped the crumpled blue sheet into Hogan's outstretched palm. "It's from London. Kinch told me to bring it to you. He's waiting for them to send the details."

He retreated a few steps after the deed was done, realizing some unspoken transgression. The colonel's irritated look was proof enough of that.

Hogan unfolded the note, read through it, and gave a slight shake of his head. "Sometimes I think they forget we're mortals. They want another bridge sabotaged by next week. We've already blown up enough of them to qualify for a world record."

"Really?" Carter's interest was captured. "Is that right? You know, I've always been interested in records. Before the war, I was going to try for a pie-eating championship-"

Hogan fixed him in his gaze. "Carter?"

"Yes, boy! -Sir." He quieted down rapidly, then his eyes widened as the lump of blankets stirred and let out a faint, breathy sigh.

Carter gaped.

"...Sir?"

"Newkirk nearly got hypothermia last night. We don't have a fireplace, and there's no other way to warm him up. That's all it is." The excuse fell readily from Hogan's lips. It was loosely based in fact; they'd both been out late for an outdoor reconnaissance mission, among other evening activities. "Do you think I'd share a bunk if I didn't have to? There's barely enough room here for _one_ of us, let alone two."

Carter's eyebrows were practically crawling up his forehead, his mouth half open as he gaped at the idea. Hogan's explanation was valid, though, so he reconciled himself with it without too many second thoughts. "Whatever you say, sir."

Newkirk stirred again, still obviously caught up in the throes of a dream. He pressed closer to Hogan, one arm slung around his waist under the covers, and licked his lips, resting drowsily against Hogan. "Mmm... Rob."

Carter's second thoughts arrived immediately. "Are you really sure it's hypothermia?"

Hearing Carter's voice, Newkirk resumed consciousness in an instant, taking on a note of panic as he realized the circumstances. He struggled out of Hogan's grasp and rolled over to face Carter, eyes opening wide. Time for an excuse, and _fast._

"I- I used to 'ave a bird in London. Roberta was 'er name, but I called 'er Rob for short. We all did. Whenever I got sick she'd keep me warm, like the Colonel's doin' now." Newkirk glanced back at him. "And it's very kind of 'im, too, I might add."

He beamed innocently at Carter, awaiting judgment.

Carter was torn. On one hand, he had some suspicions that he'd always tried to ignore... on the other hand, this was really none of his business. If the colonel said Newkirk was getting sick, then Newkirk needed to be kept warm. Plain and simple. The operation worked better that way.

"It sure is." Carter nodded, then directed the beam of his flashlight elsewhere, glancing back at them as he made his way towards the door. "Hypothermia, that's rough."

"If you catch it early, it's not too bad." Hogan fell neatly into the role of medical expert. "Let me know when Kinch gets the rest of the message."

"Will do, sir." Carter threw him a salute and sauntered out, closing the door neatly behind him. The latch fell shut with a click.

Newkirk and Hogan lay frozen in silence for a few moments, their hearts pounding in their chests and cold sweats threatening to drench them both.

Once the coast was clear Newkirk turned over onto his stomach, face pressed into the flimsy mattress. "Won't that man _ever_ learn to knock?"

"I must have forgotten to hang up the Do Not Disturb sign." Hogan held him more fearlessly now, hands resting on his lover's waist and lower back. "'Roberta,' huh? Good thing you're not wearing pants. My insurance policy doesn't cover fires."

"If you're complainin', I can go get me trousers." Newkirk had exchanged the uniform for his usual nightgown, socks, and not much else. He was more comfortable that way.

As it happened, Hogan liked him that way better, too. "Don't bother. How long do we have 'til roll call?"

Newkirk had checked his watch as soon as Carter showed up. "Two and a half 'ours."

Hogan gave a devilish little grin and a peck on Newkirk's lips, reaching for him under the covers. "That's just about enough."

"_Rob_." Newkirk squirmed away. "Didn't you 'ear 'im say 'e's waiting for another broadcast? Then the whole bleedin' camp'll be up and wantin' to know the mission! We 'aven't got time for a romp in the sheets."

Hogan acknowledged this with a slight groan. "You know how London is. They won't send the details for at least another half an hour. And I'm _not_ intending to do that."

"Knowin' our luck, they're sendin' the message right now." Newkirk let out a soft huff of a sigh, winding his arms around Hogan's waist again. "What _are_ you doin', then? Just makin' the most of your time?"

"Exactly." Hogan placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and ran his fingers through Newkirk's tousled hair. "But if you really feel that way, then come on and get up so we're ready to go."

"I didn't mean it _that_ bloody much." Newkirk tugged the covers up around himself defensively, closing his eyes again. "Go back to sleep."

"You too. And try not to talk in your sleep next time."

"I can't 'elp it." He scowled deeply for an instant, brow furrowing. "Not 'ere, at least."

Hogan reached out and ran a thumb across Newkirk's forehead, smoothing out the crease. "Good thing you're a good liar."

"So are you, sir." Newkirk concealed a small smile, giving an appealing little lick of his lips instead. "Only 'ere would _that_ be a compliment."

"Oh, it is." Hogan took note of the gesture and closed his eyes to prevent further temptation. "London can take their time with that message."


End file.
